


you're sleeping in a spotlight

by omniocularz (adaptation)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Fingering, Barebacking, Bottom Richie Tozier, Butt Plugs, Come as Lube, Consensual Somnophilia, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Improper Use of Zzzquil, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Video, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Rimming, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24747400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adaptation/pseuds/omniocularz
Summary: There's definitely a plug in his ass. He doesn't remember putting it in—he and Eddie hadn't even fucked last night. But he grasps the edge of the stopper and pulls, slowly, gently, until the rim of his hole gives and the plug slides out. His asshole burns, sore.It's not their biggest one, he realizes as he looks at it. Not the one he would have chosen if he'd put it there himself. But the really shocking thing about it is the state of it. Not only is it slick with lube—it's greased with come.Except Richie knows they didn't fuck last night.At least, not that he remembers.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 60
Kudos: 297
Collections: Season of Kink





	you're sleeping in a spotlight

**Author's Note:**

> See the end notes for a list of spoilery content warnings.

Richie wakes to a dull throbbing deep inside his ass, and the press of a silicone disk against his cheeks.

His mouth is dry when he tries to swallow, and he blinks blearily at the vague but punishing line of light leaking in through the gap between their blackout curtains. His whole head feels full of fog, like someone plugged a smoke machine into his ear and let it rip. He can't think clearly. The last thing he remembers is climbing into bed after chugging more Zzzquil than was strictly doctor-approved. Eddie had fussed about it as Richie fell asleep to the melodic cadence of his angry ranting. Eddie going off about something relaxed him; when Eddie was spouting off, everything was right with the world.

With a pathetic groan, Richie rolls over onto his back, and grimaces as the act forces the bedsheet to peel away from his stomach like a bandaid. "What the fuck?" he blurts, voice gritty from sleep. He slaps a hand out to the side, patting along the nightstand until he knocks the bottle of Zzzquil onto the floor and finds his glasses. He shoves them onto his face.

There's dried come crusted all over his stomach, clinging to the hair of his treasure trail. Jesus, that's a throwback. He hasn't had a wet dream in... well, he's 41, it's been a while. He better change the sheets before Eddie gets home.

He throws a leg over the side of the bed, and only then remembers there's something in his ass. He cringes at the sensation, rolls over onto his hip, and reaches down to get a better feel for the situation.

There's definitely a plug in there. He doesn't remember putting it in—he and Eddie hadn't even fucked last night. But he grasps the edge of the stopper and pulls, slowly, gently, until the rim of his hole gives and the plug slides out. His asshole burns, sore. 

It's not their biggest one, he realizes as he looks at it. Not the one he would have chosen if he'd put it there himself. But the really shocking thing about it is the state of it. Not only is it slick with lube—it's greased with come. 

The jizz was kept damp and pearly white by the heat of his ass, and there's a glob of it clinging near the tip of the plug. This in itself isn't an unusual finding; Eddie likes comeplay, likes to finger his jizz back into Richie when it leaks out, to stopper it into him like he's a particularly foul-mouthed container of some kind. Except Richie knows they didn't fuck last night.

At least, not that he remembers.

His body reacts to the realization before his groggy brain can fully get there. He goes hot all over as his eyes slide to the bottle of Zzzquil on the floor. His stomach clenches in a way that makes him feel vaguely nauseous, like he gets sometimes when he's gone too long without eating. His blood rushes in his ears, and he feels like he's swimming, waves crashing into him, around him, even as his cock starts to thicken between his legs.

Eddie fucked him while he was asleep.

The thought thrills through him, zinging through the molasses-thick sludge of his post-Zzzquil brain. His skin buzzes with it. But this is a realization best handled while caffeinated. He drops the gooey plug onto the bed and climbs shakily out of it. His feet find the carpet but his knees feel wobbly as he grabs his phone and shuffles out of the bedroom, too bleary to care that he's butt-ass naked. 

He swipes into his phone as he stumbles into the kitchen and grabs a coffee mug; a surprisingly boring one, from some shitty door prize Eddie got at work. He pours some coffee into it from the pot Eddie made before he left, then shoves it in the microwave to reheat. He's scrolling through Facebook, waiting for the _bing_ of his coffee, when a new text message comes in.

The text tone is soft and cutesy, the sound that plays in the Zelda games when you regain a heart. He taps on the message, and his conversation with Eddie fills the screen. His stomach clenches.

**You sore this morning?**

He can hear it ringing through his foggy mind in Eddie's voice, low and hot, the way he sounds when he's hard and gearing up to make Richie beg for it. He'd been half-hard since the realization of what had gone on while he slept, but Eddie's text has him the rest of the way there, which makes for an awkward situation while he's spooning three sugars into his coffee. He smiles into his coffee mug as he types out a reply one handed: _**feels like i got rode hard n put away wet**_

They had talked about it before, sleepfucking, but so far never implemented. It was one of those things that Richie was sort of embarrassed to ask for, but wanted nonetheless, and when he'd finally got up the nerve, Eddie had gone all quiet and dark-eyed, and looked right _into_ him and then made him have a conversation about _boundaries_ that probably shouldn't have been carried out while he was as hard as he was. Whatever, the point was it had been so long since that conversation that Richie'd sort of thought Eddie'd forgotten about it, or at least been uninterested enough to let it fall by the wayside in the wake of copious amounts of ass-eating.

Except he hadn't. Apparently, the sneaky little bastard had just been waiting for Richie to get fucked up enough that he wouldn't wake up. And that was just... well, it was pitch perfect. That's all Richie had really wanted—Eddie using him for his own pleasure, taking what he wanted with no regard for how Richie felt about it or worry about having to get Richie off. He wants Eddie to know that he could have Richie all the time, every part of him, whenever he wanted, and apparently he _does_. The thought makes Richie feel warm and safe, wrapped in laundry fresh from the dryer.

The only downside is—well. They had incredible sex and Richie doesn't get to remember it. His only souvenirs of a night Eddie'll never forget are flakey come in his pubes and a sore, wet asshole.

Speaking of which, he should probably not sit bare-assed on the couch in this state, but he's still kind of fucked up from the Zzzquil, so fuck it. It's Eddie's fault anyway.

He flops down onto the sofa to enjoy his morning coffee and then maybe consider doing something about his unflagging boner when Eddie's reply comes through.

**Not inaccurate.**

Richie's cock twitches. Fuck, he's never going to make it through his coffee without jerking off, is he?

Just as he's thinking about setting the mug aside, Eddie texts again.

**Have you checked your camera gallery yet?**

It gives him pause, his forehead wrinkling in confusion, because why the fuck would his first instinct upon waking be to check his camera gallery? And why would Eddie give a shit? But the realization sinks into him slowly, worming around the clouds in his mind until his fingers are tight and white-knuckled around his phone: Eddie took pictures.

He very nearly drops his hot coffee all over his lap in his haste to get it out of his hand so he can get into his photo files. What a world-class irony that would be, scalding his dick because he was in too much of a rush to jerk off. Alanis Morrissette, eat your heart out. 

He gets the coffee onto the coffee table and then taps on the Photos app with shaking fingers. His throat feels dry, but not in the way coffee would help. He couldn't be awake for it, but Eddie would show him, Eddie is so good to him, takes such good care of him, knows exactly what he needed, god he's so lucky, what did he do to deserve—

There are no new picture files.

It's a fucking _video._

"Holy shit, holy shit," he says in a rush. He squirms on the couch, probably smearing come and lube into the cushion, but he doesn't care, he'll have it cleaned, he'll buy a whole new fucking couch as long as he gets to watch this video right this _fucking_ second.

He turns his phone on its side, trying desperately to hold it upright in his sweat-slippery hand. The thumbnail is dark and grainy from the front-facing camera, but if he squints through his glasses Richie can make out the form of himself sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward the camera, mouth open and drooling into his pillow. He looks dead to the world, like he's probably going to be snoring if he ever presses Play.

His breath stuck in his throat, he does.

Eddie's arm pulls away from the phone as the video starts. He adjusts the camera angle slightly, to get a better view of where Richie's sprawled on the mattress behind him. He's breathing through his mouth loud enough for it to be audible in the recording, and Eddie on screen glances down at him, all snuggled up in their comforter, before shooting the camera a particularly wicked smirk.

Richie's cock twitches, and he has to fist his free hand against his thigh to keep from taking hold of it.

Eddie moves to the side and treats Richie to a gorgeous view of his body, bare save the pair of black boxer briefs that he'd worn to bed. His muscles are delectably shaded by the moonlight filtering in through the window, turned blue-gray by the dark light setting of the phone camera. His forearm is pale on screen as he reaches out and curls his long fingers around a tuft of blanket, then draws it away from Richie's body.

He can see the air chill his on-screen body in the way he unconsciously curls up. It's not a lot, but one of his knees draws up like it'll save his core temperature. 

Eddie kneels on the mattress between his legs, curving carefully over his body as he lays his palm between Richie's shoulder blades. Real Richie can almost feel it, the gentle press of heat near the top of his spine, and he shivers as he watches Eddie drag his hand along the curve, dipping into the small of his back before his fingers curl into the waist of the taco boxers he'd worn to bed. Eddie's cautious as he drags them down Richie's hips, taking his time so he can be sure the movements aren't jarring enough to wake him. He reaches under Richie's body to pull the elastic over his cock without disturbing him, and Real Richie almost caves, his hand moving for his dick before he catches himself and detours to tangle his fingers in his own pubes. They're still crusty from whatever Eddie did to him, and he doesn't know what that is but he's going to find out.

A drop of precome pulses from the tip of his cock.

On screen, Eddie gets the boxers off him successfully and throws them away somewhere out of view, and then he smooths his hands onto Richie's thighs. Real Richie's scalp starts to tingle like Eddie's running his fingers through his hair, the sensation of it trickling down the back of his neck as Eddie nudges his legs apart, urging the knee closest to the camera up toward his ribcage. He doesn't force it, only moves it as far as it'll go without effort, and Richie on camera doesn't even react. He continues sleeping, knocked out by those perverted fucks at Vicks. They most definitely knew what they were doing when they made Zzzquil, and Richie wonders if it would be too much to send them a small thank you note and maybe a Starbucks gift card.

With Richie's legs in place, spread open for Eddie's pleasure, Eddie leans over him again, dragging his lips over Richie's hunched shoulder. "You look so good like this, Rich," he says, quiet, but loud enough for the camera to pick it up without straining. Richie assumes he's talking to his own sleeping body, but then Eddie looks right into the camera and kisses his shoulder again. 

"I love it when you're all soft and sleepy," he tells Real Richie. "I could do whatever I want to you right now and there's nothing you could do about it. Not that you'd stop me." He smiles darkly, peering over Richie's shoulder directly into the lens of the camera. "You're a slut for it even when you're awake. Aren't you, baby?"

The Richie underneath him shifts as Eddie drags a possessive hand down his side, stopping with a clutch at his hip. Real Richie keens aloud, mouth falling open with it as every ounce of self-control he has flees his body, and he grabs his throbbing cock by the base.

He tries to take it slow, stroking in even, long motions as Eddie shifts down between his legs on the bed and then spreads Richie's cheeks with both hands. Eddie keeps his eyes on the camera as long as he can as he delves in, but the angle of it isn't right for him to be able to eat Richie out and maintain eye contact, so he shuts his eyes and exhales. Real Richie can't see his tongue, but he can almost feel it, prodding at his hole, nudging inside, circling the sensitive rim. Still, it's a hell of a view, with Eddie's eyes closed and his forehead crinkled with concentration, soft noises of enjoyment muffled by Richie's ass.

A hard breath sounds and for a second he thinks it came from him, and it sort of did, but it's him on screen. He'd been so focused on Eddie he didn't even notice the way his expression changed. He's clearly still sleeping, but his mouth has closed now and his brow is furrowed like he's having a thought-provoking dream. Then his lips pull into a pouty sort of moue Richie's not sure he's ever made while conscious, and when he looks back to Eddie, he finds him held up on one elbow, easing a finger into Richie's ass.

"You take it so easy," Eddie tells him, fingerfucking him a few more times before he draws back to reach out of view, and comes back with their lube. He slicks up two fingers and presses them into Sleeping Richie, and Real Richie sees his on-screen hips rock with it. He's starting to rut against the mattress like he's having an illicit dream, and Eddie laughs darkly. "You dreaming of me, baby?" he asks, voice soft and sweet. Then it hardens: "You better be," and he pulls his fingers out so he can spank Richie on the ass. It makes an audible smack as the cheek of his ass jiggles with it, and Eddie stills, as though waiting for Richie to wake up, but he just whines sleepily and clutches at the pillow, ruts against the mattress again. Eddie huffs a laugh and squeezes where he smacked. "So sweet and slutty when you're sleeping. You can't even help it, can you?"

His hand moves back between Richie's legs, the other spread wide open over his cheek to hold it to the side as he pushes in three fingers this time. "Gotta get you nice and ready," he says matter-of-factly, his eyes locked onto where he's fingering Richie, "so you don't wake up when I fuck you. This is all for me; don't wanna have to deal with your needy whining, your begging for my cock. You can’t even help it, it just spills out, doesn’t it?"

Richie's fingers are fisted into the pillow, but aside from that and the gentle rock of his hips into the mattress, he doesn't show any signs of being aware of what's going on. Real Richie doesn't remember having any particularly sexy dreams last night, but he _had_ been hopped up on over-the-counter sleep aids, so he might not be the most reliable witness. He wonders if the him in the video had any clue he was actually being fucked. Lucky bastard, Real Richie sort of hates him. 

His breath is coming hard and fast now as he squirms on the couch, fisting his cock. He's trying not to get ahead of himself, wants to come when Eddie's fucking him on screen. His dick is a little wet from precome, but he never gets as leaky as Eddie does, and he could use some lube before he strips the skin right off his cock. He's weighing out the pros and cons of stumbling back into the bedroom to find the bottle when Eddie reaches over his body on screen to take the phone in hand.

There's a blur as Eddie switches the camera out of front-facing mode and then points it downward toward Richie's ass. His hole is slick in the dim moonlight, swollen from Eddie's fingers, and Real Richie feels himself clench around nothing. He wishes Eddie were here, that it wasn't just a video, that he'd be able to ease into his hole where he belongs.

The tiny screen of his phone really isn't enough. It doesn't capture the full experience as Eddie's free hand lubes up his cock and then wipes the excess on Richie's ass cheek. He moves the phone closer to the action then, and the camera struggles to focus on the absence of light. When it does, Eddie's thumb moves into frame, fitting into Richie's crack and pulling one cheek aside so the head of his cock can brush Richie's fluttering hole. Real Richie moans at the sight, the sound coming from him completely unbidden, and his hand leaves his cock to delve down between his legs to his aching real-life hole.

Eddie teases him on camera, tip catching on his rim over and over again as he chuckles. "You're not even awake and you're trying to pull me in. What do you think, Rich? Do you deserve to get fucked?" He doesn't pan the camera up to Richie's sleeping face, or even the rest of his body; it's abundantly clear that he's talking only to Richie Now, Future/Present Richie. Present Richie shudders through an exhale and pushes his fingers into himself. His fingers aren't wet, but he's got enough lube and come in him from last night that it only stings a little, and then only from overuse. Eddie is seducing him from the past and Richie hates him and Richie loves him, and Richie wants him to _fuck_ him.

"You've been good so far." Eddie's starting to actually sound affected now; there's a quiet hitch in his voice as he thrusts over Richie's hole again. "I think you deserve it. You deserve to wake up full of my come. You'd like that, wouldn't you, baby?" He exhales heavily, the sound harsh through the camera speaker, as he aligns the head of his cock with Richie's rim and then shifts his thumb over from Richie's ass cheek to press down on it. The pressure of his thumb starts to push him in, and Richie can see his hole opening, stretching under the weight. 

Real Richie whines high in his throat and twists his wrist, curling his fingers inside himself. His prostate is throbbing, but he ignores it in favour of scooping as much slick as he can from what Eddie left in him, and then pulls out. He glances away from the video, panting, just long enough to note the old lube and sticky jizz on his fingers, and then he refocuses, wrapping his newly slicked hand around his dick.

Eddie slides into him slowly but steadily, and Richie mimics the penetration with a long stroke up the length of his cock. When Eddie's bottomed out, his hips pressed flush to Richie's ass, he leans forward, and there's some more blur before the camera's returned to its original position. Eddie looks incredible; his eyes are dark and shiny, his hair sleep-and-sex mussed, and though the image is too desaturated for him to tell, Richie knows he's flushed from the balls of his cheeks down to his thatch of dark pubes. Richie wants to kiss him so badly he aches with it.

"Feel good, Rich?" Eddie asks, this time looking down at where he's buried in Richie's ass, and it's not clear this time who he's talking to but Real Richie answers anyway: "Yesss." It comes out in a hiss, his head falling back as his fingers circle around his cock just under the flared head. The hot pressure of orgasm is building in him and he wants so badly to time it with the video, as unlikely as it is.

He manages to get ahold of himself long enough to lift his head again as Eddie starts to fuck him in earnest. His fingers are tight on Richie's hips, and it's probably partially to keep Richie in place, but partly to stop himself from going too fast, jostling Richie too much. He can see the strain of it in Eddie's forearms, a view he rarely has since when Eddie fucks him he's usually too busy losing his mind to take mental pictures. The new view provided here has offered up all sorts of interesting visuals; speaking of which, sleeping Richie's face is all scrunched up now, something interesting happening in his dream, and he's rocking against the mattress with more rhythm, more intent. Real Richie can see the head of his cock poking out from between his stomach and the mattress, shaded by his bent knee, but it's enough to know he's hard and probably leaking.

"Fuck, Rich, you feel so good." The teasing edge is gone from Eddie's voice and he just sounds breathy, almost amazed, like he gets sometimes when Richie rims him so well he cries. "So perfect, so hot, you're not even awake, Richie, _fuck_." He inhales long, shaky, and squeezes his eyes shut as he forces himself to temper his rhythm. That makes one of them, Richie thinks as he picks up the pace of fucking his fist. He ain't tempering shit.

"Jesus, Eddie," he murmurs. His grip on his phone is slippery with sweat.

"Can't believe you let me do this," Eddie continues, and at this point Richie's not sure he's even talking out loud on purpose. He babbles when he's on the edge, and it's adorable and sexy and Richie can't get enough of it, especially now when all he has of Eddie is a video, his words, and an aching hole full of come. "Love you so much, baby, want it to be good for you, you deserve it, you're so good for me, so good to me. Richie, fuck, Richierichierichie—"

The Richie on camera is moaning incoherently in his sleep now, hips rocking into the mattress and back into Eddie and Eddie takes note. He drapes over Richie's back, maneuvers his hand between Richie's body and the mattress, and the camera only catches a slight jerk of his arm before Richie gasps wetly into his pillow and goes lax. Eddie withdraws his hand, dragging his palm across Richie's stomach as he pulls it away and uses it instead to grip Richie's shoulder. 

"Fuck," he whispers harshly, "got off in your sleep, can't fucking believe you, you're incredible. Now you're gonna sleep covered in your own jizz, mine in your ass—" His hips are starting to lose their rhythm, thrusts turning stuttery. "—and you're gonna sleep like a fucking baby, aren't you, Rich, you slut, you're perfect, I love you, I love you, I love—"

It's visible when Eddie comes. He goes taut all over, fingers tightening on Richie so hard that he dimly wonders if there are fingerprint bruises on his shoulder and butt cheek that he can't see. Eddie's buried to the hilt inside him on his phone screen, breathing hard through the speaker, and he looks like he's been conked on the head with a baseball bat. For a long minute, he's still, regrouping. Then he carefully withdraws from Richie's ass and picks up the camera again.

He aims it back down at Richie's hole, which is oozing now with the come that escaped when Eddie pulled out. The camera stays here, watching the pearly glimmer of jizz slide over his rim and start to roll toward his taint until one of their plugs appears in frame. Real Richie's breath hitches in his throat and his hand squeezes hard on the head of his cock, and then as Eddie carefully uses the plug to scoop up his come, and then eases it into Richie's hole, Real Richie explodes.

At least, it certainly feels that way. He comes with the force of a thousand freight trains, his entire body flying apart into the molecules that made him and then reforming into a hairy, half-drugged asshole sitting naked on his sofa covered in jizz. It's all over his fist, his stomach, his chest, and there's even a bit on his chin, and he wants to melt into the couch, fuck the steam cleaning bill, he doesn't care about anything, he'll never care about anything again—

But on screen, Eddie's fit the plug snugly into him and is thumbing the stopper of it gently. "It was so good for me, baby," he whispers, just for the camera. "Better than I thought it'd be." His thumb traces the outer edge of the silicone disk where it's pressed into Richie's pale ass cheek. "Hope it was good for you, too."

The video cuts out.

Richie's dead. He's turned to jello and will never move again.

He's not sure how long he blobs there on the couch, covered in various fluids, but he doesn't move until his phone rings.

He picks it up one-handed, without looking at the caller ID, and tries to say hello. Instead, he says, "Muhn?"

"Richie?" Eddie prompts. He sounds half amused, half concerned. "You haven't texted in a while. I was starting to get worried that maybe you..." He pauses, and Richie can hear his tension through the phone. "I don't know, had second thoughts. Regretted it." He hesitates. "Did you watch the video?"

"I'm dead," Richie says finally. His mouth feels mushy and uncooperative. "The video killed me."

Eddie huffs a laugh. "Like... in a good way?"

Richie groans. "The best way. I can't move. I have become one with the couch. You'll have to hire someone to peel me off it if you want me placed elsewhere."

"You're—on the _couch?_ Rich, that's so gross, what the fuck, did you jerk off there? Is there come all over my fucking sofa, Richie?"

Richie smiles and lifts his hand to thumb at his eyelids. Then he remembers, belatedly, that his hand is covered in lube and jizz, and now his eyelids are sticky and gross, and drops his hand. "It's your fault, Kaspbrak, you fucked the life out of me. If I'd known what awaited me, I would have waited until I got to the bedroom to peek at the camera gallery, but no, not even a hint from Eddie Kaspbrak, Sex God Extraordinaire, Defiler of Sleeping Maidens."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He tries to sound snappish but he's obviously laughing, and Richie's heart swells with fondness.

Instead of answering, he asks, "When are you gonna come home and fuck me?" 

"Haven't you had enough? You've come twice already and it's not even noon."

"Is it because I'm awake? Do I have to pretend to be unconscious now if I want to turn you on? I can do that, baby, just tell me, whatever you want."

"Shut the fuck up, Richie," Eddie sighs, warm affection bleeding through his tone. Richie wonders if Eddie can hear his grin through the phone the way he can hear Eddie when he's trying not to smile. He hears a squeak through the phone, like Eddie's leaning back in his cushy office chair. Then Eddie asks quietly, "It was okay, though?"

"Yeah, Eds." Without meaning to, Richie pitches his tone to match Eddie's, soft and sweet and vulnerable. "It was perfect."

"Good." He can practically picture Eddie looking for something on his desk to fidget with. "I was worried it might have been too—"

"It wasn't." He doesn't know what Eddie was going to say, but whatever it was, it _wasn't._ "It was amazing. Best sleep sex ever. Don't know what I did to deserve to such a thorough dicking, but—"

"Jesus, Richie."

"—by all means, tell me, and I'll keep doing it."

"You _are_ doing it." It comes out almost absently, like Eddie didn't mean to say it out loud. Richie frowns and waits. When no response is forthcoming, Eddie exhales. "You're funny and sweet and kind. You work so hard at your job, and you treat me so well even when I'm acting like a nutcase. You're amazing, Rich. You deserve it all the time, just because you're you."

When Richie draws a breath in, it's shaky and warbling. "Eds," he says.

"Oh, come on, Rich." Eddie's frustration reaches through the phone to pull a smile from him. "You don't have to— you goddamn crybaby, can you keep it together for one fucking phone call?"

"You were being nice to me!"

"I'm always nice to you, dipshit, I'm in love with you!"

Richie uses one hand to wipe at the tears streaming down his cheeks, laughing. "I love you too, Eds. You're my favourite asshole."

"Yeah, yeah." Eddie pauses. "Rich. Put the plug back in."

The change in topics throws him off, although he supposes they _were_ talking about assholes. "Huh?"

"I'm not prepping you when I get home."

Eddie hangs up the phone and Richie throws his arm over his eyes, smiling. Maybe those fuckers at Vicks have the right idea.

**Author's Note:**

> This should go without saying, but please don't fuck people when they're unconscious (unless you have their explicit permission). That's assault, my dudes.
> 
> Title is from "Talking in Your Sleep" by The Romantics.
> 
> This one goes out to the Horse Cock Rights group chat for the supportive screaming, and thanks to my dearest [Katie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestbreak) for the beta.
> 
> content warnings: somnophilia (consensual), kink negotiated off-screen, non-consensual sex tapes (enthusiastically approved of later), sitting naked on a couch, making coffee naked, overdosing on over-the-counter sleep aids, jerking off in the living room, light verbal humiliation (Richie getting called a slut, implied to be desperate), making dubcon sex tapes on hackable phones that belong to c-list celebrities, copious amounts of jizz, crybaby Richie


End file.
